The penthouse simmered in the afterglow of their tangled mornings, but beneath Ishani's naive smiles lurked a serpent uncoiling—jealousy, sharp and venomous, born from Virat's teasing lie about the "one-night stand." At 23, she was a storm in silk, her body awakening to cravings she couldn't name, every brush of his hand igniting a fire that pooled hot and slick between her thighs. She'd catch herself staring at his shirt draped over her curves, inhaling his scent like a drug, fingers tracing the bruises he'd left on her waist—marks she now fingered in secret, thighs clenching at the memory of his cock grinding her to the brink. No one else touches him, the thought hissed, possessive and primal, her innocence fracturing into something darker, hungrier. Virat saw it in her eyes—the way they darkened when his phone buzzed with a woman's name, the subtle arch of her back when she pressed against him, staking silent claim.